Over A Glass of Wine
by GiantKiller 130
Summary: Chris and Jill having problems. Or uh, Chris having Jill problems. Rated M for language, violence and mature themes. Or something.


**[AN] Okay, so I decided to go and write this after talking to a friend about how terrible of a character Jill has become. Sometimes, I feel like people don't realize the damage that has been done in regards to Jill.**

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><p>Every time I saw her, I hoped he was suffering. Between her and Wesker, I imagine she got it worse. Wesker more or less died with dignity, something that she feels she has a lot less of.<p>

She never could bring herself to admit it, but it hurts her. She removed most of her mirrors at home. I barely come over as it is. Every week, she has to see a doctor to make sure her body is doing fine, and can adjust to living without the drug. It makes her nervous. She's great at hiding it. She had the practice. Once, when we were alone, she told me, over a glass of wine that Wesker didn't touch her, but the things she had to do made her feel violated.

She never wears anything that will show too much of her chest, because of the scars. She wears contacts because her eyes make people nervous and she has to dye her hair for people to take her seriously. She told me that no one can stand to talk to her anymore.

It was a last fuck you to one of the few people who had the balls to stand up to him. Not just a fuck you for her, but for me too. Wesker was a clever fucker, and I don't think I could ever forgive him for it.

I think he knew. I think everyone except Jill knew. I cared deeply for her, and maybe even loved her. Maybe. How could I love someone else when I hated myself for allowing her to suffer now? It never crossed my mind that it might have been better to just kill her when I had the chance. Every blow I inflicted on her, every time I had her pinned down trying to remove the device, every shot I fired at her, I hoped to keep her alive.

_I should have killed her when I had the chance._ Maybe then at night, she wouldn't lay awake thinking of why no one would look at her the same. She thought she hid it well, the tears of pain she shed at night. But I knew, because her eyes were always red. I knew because she went through a lot.

I tried to apologize, once things calmed down. Once the BSAA welcomed her back (tentatively, of course) I sat with her, late one night, over that same glass of wine. I told her that I wish she hadn't done it, and that if I knew she would suffer for it, I would have gladly gone to the grave to prevent it. And she slapped me.

"Christopher Redfield, if you ever consider throwing away your life's work for something as trivial as how I'm feeling or what other people think of me... I'll kick your ass."

I never brought it up again.

"You have a family. I don't. Claire is reason enough to live." She said one day, when we were talking about inclement weather. I didn't say anything about it.

"People like you, you're the poster boy for the BSAA." She said, one day during a conversation about animals in a zoo. I didn't say anything about it.

"No one would miss me, if I were gone." She said, in a conversation about my apartment.

"I would. And I did. And you do have family. You're my family. People like you. I wish you could have heard the things people said at the funeral." I responded, when I was taking her home. She didn't say anything about it.

She could say nothing about everything. And I would let her.

Things are still different for her. Her skin is so pale, I'm scared she might disappear completely one day. Disappear again, and go into the Divide, the Beyond, the Netherworld, Nifleheim, Neverland... maybe she might fade into Limbo and wait forever to find some solace.

It was ironic. She believed in luck, but the living dead was something that to this day, she didn't believe in.

"They're sick," She would always say, "They're carriers. They're infected."

I never believed that she believed it.

It was a special occasion when I sat her down, and I let her order dinner. She had on a pretty dress that left some of her chest exposed, and she had her hair back in that plain Jane ponytail that I had gotten so used to now. Today, she left her contacts at home. I could see the scars on her chest, the marks slightly darker than the rest of her skin. Whenever a waiter walked by, she unconsciously covered it up with the menu. But she let me see everything. And I never let her see anything.

"I have a question for you." She said, while we were waiting on the waiter for our food. She had a glass of wine she was drinking slowly, and I had a apple martini. She wouldn't look at me, she refused to. I'm glad.

"What is it?" I asked, staring at her. For a moment, she looked at me, and it was my turn to look away. I didn't know what she was going to ask, but if she had to ask me if it was okay to proceed, it was going to be a question that I might have fought uncomfortable.

"Why don't you look my in eyes anymore?" As I suspected, the question was quite personal. I didn't answer her right away. I didn't even realize I was doing it.

"Sorry. I didn't notice. It's not on purpose." I said, avoiding her eyes.

"It's the color, isn't it? I'm sorry. I left my contacts at home..." I didn't answer her. In fact, I stood up, and walked out of the restaurant. I didn't give a fuck how many people were watching me. I walked right out of the restaurant, and right down the block.

The next day at work, when she saw me, she didn't have anything to say. In fact, as far as she was concerned, yesterday never happened.

"You have nicely colored eyes, but they look dead." I told her during a conversation about excessive travel expenses. She didn't say anything about it.

"Your eyes are sad and distant, looking at them makes me feel terrible." I said one time, during a conversation about Burmese pythons. She said nothing about it.

"I'm afraid that if I look into them, you're going to see the same thing I see in yours." I said, during a conversation about how burn victims take on the pugilistic pose.

"Why did you walk out that day, in the restaurant?" She asked me, over some Chinese food. We were hanging out in her house, and I forgot about her eyes. I was on the floor, sitting and using chopsticks to eat, and she was stretched out using a fork to eat. We were both so at ease, that the question caught me so off guard.

"Because the food was bad." I said, putting my food down, and standing. I was ready to walk out again when she reached over. She made a clumsy grab for my arm and got my shirt instead. She tugged on it insistently, before putting her food down and maneuvering herself off the couch. She reminded me of a pregnant woman having trouble with her belly, the way she kinda wriggled herself off the couch. It was an ungraceful motion that was out of character. It almost made me wonder...

"Don't go, Chris. Can't we just talk? You and me, just like old times." She held my hand in both of hers like a child that was excited. The outbreak in Raccoon City changed everyone. After the outbreak, I was much more cynical and careful about what I did. I couldn't sleep and when I did, it was with a gun. I used to drink a lot. Not enough to be an alcoholic, but I was dangerously close. Jill seemed different too. I couldn't say how but I knew. She had trouble sleeping, because of her dreams. Always the same nightmare. I didn't even dream anymore.

She stood beside me with long, spindly legs that looked like they would break under pressure. I was looking down at her feet, and so was she.

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm sorry I walked out on you. I didn't mean to." I said, realizing that I would never get out of the conversation.

"Then why did you do it, Chris?" She asked, letting go of my hand. I walked right out the door and maybe out of her life. I was there physically, but we were never the same after that.

She never looked at me right, or spoke to me the same way. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes when she stared, and some melancholy in her voice. I had seen that haunted look before in the eyes of some children that was playing in the mud, while we were passing through the slums of India. It was a sad look of resignation that made me so angry. It was Wesker's fault for it. Or perhaps it was mine.

I caught her staring in the mirror again, the one we had in the break room. She was so very self conscious, holding out her hands and turning them over slowly. I watched her silently from the entrance of the room, just thinking about what I would do next.

I strode over to her boldly, my hands moving to her waist. At first, this startled and alarmed her, and she twisted out of my grip to face me, before pulling herself in and burying her face into my chest. I felt her body shake in such a frail manner, her breath coming out in small hiccups. There was a dull aching pain, like someone forcefully squeezing my heart against it's will. I recognized the pain as sorrow, and in a brief moment of weakness, I caressed her back tenderly, which made her look up at me. There were a few loose strands of hair in her face and I gently moved them aside.

I always knew that I loved her, since our helicopter ride back to the city after the Mansion Incident. I had always been afraid to say anything, and I still was. In any case, she smiled, a sincere and grateful one, and I threw caution to the wind.

This world was too dangerous. Even now, with that bastard dead, there were companies trying to take over. It was like the Hydra, where cutting off one head merely resulted in a few more replacements. One day, I wanted Claire to raise a family in a world that was free from bioterrorism. I know Jill wanted the same although I know that I could never have that. I knew right then and there what I had to.

I pulled her in close to me, bringing my lips to hers, and I held the kiss, even as she struggled against me, her blood flowing past my fingers. I let it slip through, the warm, sticky fluid staining the floor and my clothes. She clung to me, and asked,

"Why Chris? How could you?"

"It's what I should have done... I'm sorry... I've always wanted you to know, I love you; you've meant everything to me." And then I pull the knife out and hate myself later.

At least, that's what I always imagine happening. Instead, I never move from the door. I head back out, wondering if she deserves such torture. I would like very much to save her, but I could only ever do so much. Maybe her fate (our fate, really, since for as long as I'm alive, I'd always be drawn to her,) was to walk around in circles, moving nowhere.


End file.
